You Can Close Your Eyes
by the classicist
Summary: A short multi-chapter fic. If Ruth got burgled, who would she call for help? And what would that person do next? H/R fluff, set post series 9
1. Broken

**AN: The title of this story (and of a couple of the chapters) is taken from the song "You Can Close Your Eyes" by James Taylor. It's gorgeous, and gave me the inspiration for a part of the story, so please take the time to listen to the song if you can! Hope you enjoy...**

* * *

><p>It had been a long, hard, <em>horrid<em> day and Ruth was cursing with all the practiced ease of a member of the SBS as she stamped up the small flight of steps to her house door. Training new recruits was definitely _not_ her vocation, and to cap it all off, she'd got soaked in one of the frequent rainstorms that had been battering London all day. Busy hunting in her bag for her keys, she didn't realise until she looked up that the door was already open, a small pool of rainwater soaking into the mat and signalling that it had been open for some time. She was positive that she had shut the door on the way out this morning. She never forgot. She never forgot anything.

Dread flooded her heart. Taking a deep breath, she entered the house, and dropped her bag silently onto the hall table, hand already curling around the small can of pepper spray in her coat pocket. Quietly she made her way down the hall and into the kitchen. It was empty and ransacked, cupboards lying open and bare. A tin of soup rested incongruously alongside an orange from the upturned fruit bowl. A soft sigh of shock escaped her and Ruth left the room, shivering.

The rest of the house was just as empty, just as ransacked. Books pulled from the shelves in the living room, the computer and television both gone. The wardrobes in her room had been emptied too, more out of malice, she thought, than any real expectation of finding anything. Some jewellery was missing too – a pendant George had bought her for her first birthday in Cyprus, a bracelet of amber beads she'd never worn above twice, and the garnet ring her father, an only child, had inherited from his mother and intended to give to Ruth on her eighteenth birthday. The same garnet ring she'd worn on her one and only date with Harry all those years ago. It was this thought rather than anything else that made her sink to the floor, allowing harsh dry sobs to tear through her body. Nothing like this had ever happened to her and she fervently thanked God that Beth was no longer here to see her in this state. There were no tears, however. After the past few months, she had felt nothing but emptiness. Emotions of any depth had been impossible.

The burglary felt like a violation and she couldn't help wondering why it had happened to her. Ruth was a good person – she donated money to charity and paid her council tax on time and had once spent a whole afternoon in hospital with her elderly neighbour when had she broken her leg. This had nothing to do with karma. She swiped a vicious hand across her face, and stood shakily. She didn't want to be on her own. The house felt dark and cold and impersonal, and she had no idea how to go about picking herself up after something like this. She wandered downstairs and sat on the bottom step, disturbed only by Fidget meowing pitifully as he tried to work out why Ruth had suddenly decided to become so messy. He clambered into her lap and she buried her face into his ginger fur, comforting herself. With one hand she rummaged in her abandoned bag for her mobile.

She intended to call Beth, ask for her to come round and sit with her for a while. But her fingers had other ideas, and they wandered across her keys in an entirely different sequence of numbers. Numbers she'd often wished she had the courage to dial. Harry's direct line on the Grid. For what must be the millionth time she experienced a deep sensation of gratitude that he worked later than anyone else. This had been especially true since the inquiry. He had escaped with a slapped wrist and a month's suspension and then life had gone back to normal. Their relationship was softly, pleasantly awkward these days, and Ruth often privately likened it to what it used to be before her exile, before either of them realised that the feelings they had for each other weren't purely platonic. The phone barely rang twice before he answered and she sighed in relief to hear his voice.

"Pearce speaking." He sounded gruff and tired and she hesitated for a moment, wondering whether it was right for her to disturb him like this. At last, biting her lip, she admitted, "It's me. Ruth." She was under no illusions – he wouldn't require her second sentence to work out who was calling him – but she was determined to treat him just like any other colleague...

In his office, Harry's face softened and the deep-set wrinkles about his eyes and mouth appeared to smooth out. He suddenly looked – and felt – more youthful. "Hello," he replied gently. Then, confusion dawned. This was the first time Ruth had rung him since that horrid night just after his proposal, when he'd rather coldly warned her against "late night tète a tètes." So why was she calling now? Supressing the rising bubble of hope in his chest, he asked, "Are you alright?"

Ruth uttered a horrid shuddering noise, halfway between a hysterical laugh and a sob. "Not really," she whispered. "I've been burgled." He was already standing up, eyes wide with sympathy and pity, before she'd even finished speaking. Ruth, _his_ Ruth, alone and clearly frightened – the thought was unbearable. "Alright," he told her soothingly. "Try not to fret. I'll be there as soon as I can." Ruth sat back on her stairs, feeling incredibly guilty. She had no right to call Harry and claim his assistance with anything. She was not his responsibility. So she did what she did best with Harry. She allowed her mouth to run on autopilot. "Really," she cried frantically, "I'm fine, Harry, you don't have to come over, I just wanted to hear your voice... I mean, somebody's voice, not necessarily yours, I meant to call Beth, and I wouldn't dream of interrupting your evening – "

Since Harry's evening consisted of a bottle of malt and whatever intolerable documentary was being shown on BBC4 tonight, he had no qualms whatsoever about telling Ruth firmly, "Calm down. You shouldn't be alone. I'm on my way." He gave her no more time to argue, merely setting the phone back in its holster and flicking the light switch off on his way out.

* * *

><p>He arrived impossibly quickly, having broken the speed limit several times, and knocked on the door, noting with an experienced eye the scratches in its paintwork left by the burglars. Ruth opened the door cautiously, poking her head into the tiny gap she allowed between the door and its frame, before stepping back, her eyes clearing slightly at the sight of him. Harry stepped in and took a long look at her. She was wearing that awful, heartbroken, dead look, the one she hadn't been able to get rid of for weeks after Lucas' death. Or Jo's, for that matter. But she hadn't been weeping. Perhaps that was worse than anything. Stepping forwards slowly, he wondered if she was still in shock.<p>

He took her hands in his own gloved ones and grimaced. "You're frozen stiff, Ruth!" he scolded softly. She shook her head silently, struggling with her self-control, and then a single tear slipped down her cheek. "Harry..." she whispered, and finally her face crumpled. She tottered into his shirtfront, revealed by his open jacket, and wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging tightly to him. He said nothing, merely cradling her against his chest, one hand resting on her damp curls, the other on her lower back, holding her like the precious thing she had always been.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This isn't fully written yet, but I thought I'd throw out the first few chapters, just to see what people think of it... Leave a review?<strong>


	2. You're Not Alone

At last, she pulled away, a little unsteady and turned her back on him, shoulders hunched and arms wrapped tightly around herself, holding her emotions in. Harry missed her presence in his arms immediately. He rested a hand hesitantly on her shoulder, and was absurdly delighted when she didn't flinch or shake him off. Someone had to think of the practicalities. "Ruth," he murmured, "have you called the police?" She shook her head stiffly. "Have you moved anything? Touched anything?" Another shake of the head.

With a final squeeze of her shoulder, he pulled out his mobile and made a phone call. Ruth focused on his voice, the shifting tones of it as he made arrangements, using his Service code to call out a few police officers. This done, he returned his attention to Ruth. "Where's Beth, anyway?" he asked, sounding slightly annoyed. Mistaking his tone of voice for irritation at being called out, she blushed softly. "I'm sorry you've gone to so much trouble," she whispered.

Harry snorted impatiently. "It wasn't any trouble. I just want to know what the hell Beth thinks she's playing at, not coming straight home when you've been burgled." Suddenly, Ruth realised the misapprehension he was labouring under and her face momentarily brightened. "Oh, Beth doesn't live with me any more, Harry," she explained. Harry's eyes widened in confusion. "What do you mean? Beth couldn't afford a place on her own on her salary!" Ruth nodded in agreement, deciding not to enlighten Harry as to what the majority of Beth's salary was spent on. At least they had always had a good bottle of white in the fridge.

"She's living with... her boyfriend," she told him at last. Harry's face darkened and he tried to remember if he'd signed any socialisation forms in the past few months. He hadn't. "Then I'll let her know at work tomorrow that she's breaking the rules. If she wants a boyfriend, she's got to go through the proper channels!" Aware of how pompous he suddenly sounded, Harry grimaced again. Ruth smiled softly, wiping her eyes with a tissue from her pocket. "No, Harry," she elaborated, with the air of someone explaining something very simple to a toddler. "She hasn't broken any rules. She's living with Dimitri."

Harry's mouth opened and closed several times as he tried to comprehend what she had just told him. "Dimitri?" he managed at last. "Beth and Dimitri? When did this happen?" Ruth wandered through into her lounge, glad to find a subject to take her mind off the devastation around her. "They got together two months ago, the same day Dimitri nearly got blown up diffusing that bomb at the Foreign Office. He got back, Beth realised what she wanted, and they kissed. And now they're living together." Her voice was wistful. It had all been so simple and romantic. She saw it as the relationship, the _life, _she and Harry should have had. Harry sat down heavily on the sofa, shaking his head.

"Why did nobody tell me? If something like that's going on between two of my staff members, I should know!" Ruth smiled wryly and sat down next to him. All those years ago, the news that she and Harry had gone out for dinner had destroyed their relationship. But she didn't think it appropriate to mention any of that. Not now, at least. "Beth doesn't want any gossip. Everything's so new. She only told me because she thought I might notice if she moved out without any warning. I think it's sweet..." They heard a sudden knock at the door and Ruth's smile faded, to be replaced with a look of anxiety. She stood up, straightening her shoulders and Harry allowed a small thrill of admiration to pass through his heart as she left the room.

* * *

><p>Ruth had expected Harry to leave now that the police had arrived, but he didn't. He sat beside her on the sofa while the young blonde policewoman filled in an incident report, his solid bulk comforting her. When her voice broke as she described her ring, he took her hand gently in his own, lending her his innate strength. She flashed him a brief, grateful smile. Finally, her ordeal was over. The police dusted for fingerprints, found none, and left, promising to make inquiries. As she shut the door, Ruth murmured yet again, "I'm sorry. It wasn't fair of me to ask – " Harry raised a hand to silence any further protests. "Nonsense," he told her briskly. "I could hardly have done anything else, could I?" Tears welled in her blue eyes again, as she listed privately all the things that a man in his position, harshly spurned, could have done.<p>

Sighing in exasperation, she wiped her eyes again. "I'll make us some tea," she offered at last. Harry opened his mouth to suggest she sit down and rest, and then saw the mulish set of her chin. It would be futile to argue, he realised, so he closed his mouth again and simply smiled at her encouragingly. "That would be lovely." She moved into the kitchen again, trying to ignore the wreckage around her. She managed to find the teabags and a bottle of milk, but the sugar bowl had been knocked from the sideboard and lay in shards on the floor. Ruth sighed and reached for two mugs, but her hands were shaking so much that she dropped one and it too shattered, next to the sugar bowl. She bent to pick them up, and a shadow fell across her.

Gently, Harry pulled her to her feet, holding her shoulders firmly. "Ruth. You're _trembling_. Let me help..." She shrugged out of his hold, shaking her head desperately, twisting her fingers together as she did so. "N-no... I'm fine, Harry. Really," she stuttered. Harry frowned deeply and, ignoring her gasp of surprise, cupped her face with his warm hand. "You shouldn't be alone here tonight," he insisted. Ruth closed her eyes, wanting more than anything to melt into his arms, his touch, his love. But she couldn't. Too much had happened, and too many angry words had been thrown around for that ever to be possible. "No, Harry, I'm OK," she forced out.

He sighed and removed his palm. Ruth opened her eyes and stared into the intensity of Harry's brown gaze. "Don't stay here tonight," he whispered. "Please." She looked down at the linoleum floor of her kitchen, a pale pink blush mantling her cheeks. "Well," she muttered at last, "it isn't like I can just go to a hotel. I mean, I have Fidget..." Harry made a disgruntled noise in his throat – could this woman never think of herself and only herself? Ruth snatched a glance at him from under her wet lashes, and saw him pass a hand over his weary face. Then, hesitantly, Harry suggested, "You could... stay with me. You and Fidget. Just for tonight, if you like..."

Ruth's eyes widened and she couldn't conceal a small gasp of astonishment. Her first instinct was to agree immediately, but that would be selfish in the extreme. Besides, staying with Harry, even for one night, could lead to situations she'd rather avoid. "I don't think that would be a very good idea," she replied carefully. He tipped his head back coolly, and she blushed as she realised how he must have taken her words. She had as good as accused him of being untrustworthy, ungentlemanly even. A moment later, Harry stated firmly, "Whatever has passed between us, Ruth, I still care for you. I consider you as a friend, and I had hoped you would return the favour." She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. Harry still had feelings for her that were definitely not those of a friend. Lying about it would do no good...

Seeing her obvious scepticism, Harry let out an exasperated sigh. "I give you my word, Ruth, that I won't try anything. I won't lay a hand on you. I won't... take advantage of you." His voice was sincere and she couldn't help but give him a half-smile. "I never supposed you would," she reassured him. "Take advantage of me, that is." His face brightened, pleased that his honour was no longer in question. "Good," he grinned shortly. "You go and pack what you need for the night, I'll round up the menagerie and we can meet in my car in ten minutes." Ruth opened her mouth, about to remind him that she hadn't actually agreed to his proposition, but Harry didn't give her the chance. Turning on his heel, he headed back into the living room, calling for Fidget.

Shaking her head in amusement, Ruth walked upstairs and into her room. With some difficulty, owing to the mess everything was in, she packed a bag, agonising for an inordinate amount of time over what to take with her. Eventually, she settled on some casual clothes for that evening, a fresh set of clothes for work tomorrow and her wash bag. Packed, she returned downstairs, to find Harry waiting in the hall for her. "It's raining again," he explained, and she saw that he'd picked up her umbrella from the upturned stand by the front door.

Opening it, he ushered them out into the rain, taking Ruth's bag from her, and transferring it to the hand he was using to carry Fidget's travel cage. He wrapped the other arm around Ruth's shoulders, and pulled her closer under the umbrella. It was such a natural movement that Ruth didn't even question it, despite the fact that she could feel her skin tingling from the glorious weight of his arm, even under several layers of clothing. As he let her into the car, Ruth realised that he had driven himself here, rather than calling out Mike. She buckled her seatbelt and asked Harry, also buckling his, "Where's Mike? I thought you would have asked him to drive you over..." Harry turned the engine on before replying. Sounding slightly preoccupied, he explained, "His daughter's come down with the chicken-pox. I told him he could get off early and go home. His wife's six months pregnant – she needs all the help she can get."

Ruth smiled softly at his evident concern for his driver. "You're getting soft in your old age," she joked quietly and sneaked a glance sideways at Harry. His mouth was quirking up at the side, but he replied with mock-sternness, "Steady on, Miss Evershed. I'm not ready to cross the Styx just yet." Ruth choked back a laugh and settled into the leather seat of Harry's rather luxurious car, realising that this was the first time she and Harry had shared a joke since the Albany affair. Harry turned on the radio softly – she thought it was Classic FM – and Ruth rested her head back. All the tension of the past few hours melted from her body, and as she closed her eyes, the soothing motion of the car rocks her to sleep...

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Next time... we get to see Harry's house...<strong>


	3. Home Sweet Home

"Ruth. Ruth? We're here." Ruth opened her impossibly heavy eyes and looked drowsily up at Harry, who was smiling down at her, his face filled with infinite tenderness. "Mmm," she mumbled incoherently, and pulled herself up from her seat. Harry chuckled, a rich baritone sound, and helped her out of the car, gripping her elbow tightly as she stumbled onto his driveway. The rain had stopped again, but the gable of Harry's porch was dripping slightly, the droplets of water glowing briefly in the amber light of a newly turned on streetlamp as they fell to the ground.

Opening the front door, Harry flicked some lights on and set down Ruth's bag and Fidget. "Get the alarm, would you, Ruth?" he asked as he removed his coat. "Code's 040903." She nodded and disabled the alarm before it had a chance to go off, feeling slightly sad that they both lived lives where that sort of security was necessary. As she tapped in the numbers, she wondered what they could mean. Codes like this always meant something. A birthday, a wedding anniversary, some sort of special date. It couldn't be Harry's birthday, and it was extremely unlikely to be his wedding anniversary. It sounded like a date in 2003. What of importance had happened in 2003? At last, she turned away and followed Harry into the living room, giving up the puzzle with reluctance.

Harry's house was just as she had always imagined it – large, Georgian, elegant. The living room was long and high ceilinged, painted pale green, with bay windows and long curtains of dark green velvet. "Sit down." Harry gestured to an armchair by the fire and Ruth sat down gratefully in it. "I'll go and set up the spare room. Try not to fall asleep again..." he added wryly and left the room. Once he had gone, Ruth had chance to look around her again. One of the walls, she noticed, was covered in bookshelves, and she stood up to examine them. He had all the classics, of course, English, Latin and Greek – Austen lay next to Aeschylus, Horace next to Hardy, with Eliot and Gaskell jumbled up amongst Ovid, Virgil and Catullus – as well as some modern books. A smile passed over Ruth's face as she ran her finger down the spine of a well-cared-for copy of Aristophanes' Plays. Funny – it was one of the things she'd always imagined them doing, back when she'd imagined them together. She had spent whole Saturday afternoons, sometimes, imagining dates they could have. She would have loved to see _Lysistrata_ with him – just for the fun of seeing him blush at the salacious jokes written two thousand years ago – and then gone out to dinner, still laughing, and spent the evening drinking white burgundy and talking. Just talking.

Her smile became wistful. At least they'd done one of those things together... The click of the door behind her made her jump and she turned around guiltily to find Harry grinning at her. He'd had time to shower, she realised, catching sight of his damp hair, curling attractively over his forehead, and the dark blue jumper and black jeans he'd changed into. "Room's ready," he explained softly. Then, taking a deep breath, Ruth marched forward and with uncharacteristic recklessness, announced, "Then lead on, Harry. Lead on."

* * *

><p>Harry led her up the sweeping curve of his staircase, crazily nervous. He badly wanted Ruth to approve of his house, for some unknown reason, and as he stamped up the stairs, carrying her bag for her, he scolded himself for being so ridiculous. There was no reason why he should want Ruth's approval of anything other than professional matters. It wasn't as if she was his wife... He winced imperceptibly as the thought shot like a lance through his brain, and he dug the nails of his free hand into his palm to stop himself from making a sound at the pain of it all.<p>

"Are you alright, Harry?" asked Ruth, from behind. He "That bag's far too heavy... I always pack far too much... let me..." And then her small hands were reaching for the bag, her fingertips brushing against his, leaving traces of electricity along his flesh. He inhaled sharply and unintentionally released the bag into her hands. This was a bad idea. A very bad idea. He couldn't even contemplate how he was going to keep his earlier promise of gentlemanly behaviour...

With relief, he reached the top of the stairs and opened the door to the guest bedroom, feeling his heart rate increase as she brushed past him slightly. He could smell the scent of her perfume – or was it her hair? – as she passed by: something soft, subtle, elegant. Utterly Ruth. She let out a soft gasp of surprise and delight and whirled around to face him, face framed by the gossamer threads of dusky sunlight floating through the long windows of the room. "It's beautiful, Harry," she murmured fervently. For the first time since he'd bought this house a few years ago, Harry looked about him. _Really_ looked. He saw the walls, painted a clear, pale blue, the dark wood floor, the velvet-cushioned window seat, the wooden furniture carefully chosen by Catherine to match the floors. It was beautiful, he supposed. But not as beautiful as Ruth. He nodded brusquely, longing to move away from her, and ease the awkwardness that he could sense springing up between them.

"I'll leave you to... get settled in. Bathroom's second door to your right – use as much hot water as you need, there are fresh towels on the rail... I hope spag bol's OK for supper?" He was rambling as much as she ever did, and that made Ruth smile. She stepped forward, hands hovering at her sides. "That sounds lovely. And Harry? Thanks for... everything. I'm truly grateful." Harry ducked his head to hide the bashful blush that was mantling his cheeks. "Not at all. I think I've got some tins of salmon in the cupboard. You know, for Fidget."

Ruth's grin widened. "You'll spoil him," she warned jokingly. "And then I'll be the one stuck with a cat who's got a taste for the high life." Harry chortled and rested a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him innocently, mouth half open, caught between a desire to stay close to him and a fear of what would happen if she did. At last, Harry squeezed her upper arm gently and whispered, "I'm very glad to have you here, Ruth. Any time." Her stunned expression made her look even more beautiful, he decided as he left the room.

Ruth waited for his footsteps to recede, and then sank down gratefully onto the bed. Surreptitiously, as though afraid that Harry would return at any moment, she lifted the pillow and sniffed, testing out, and proving correct, a long-held theory. Harry used Persil washing powder. With an odd little smile on her face, and somehow feeling much brighter than she had done earlier, Ruth collected her wash bag and headed towards the bathroom.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Don't know when this will be next updated - I don't anticipate it being too long, though, since I have the whole Regency fic thing to plan.<strong>


	4. Something Else

**AN: Since everyone left such lovely reviews, here's another update... x**

* * *

><p>When Ruth emerged from the bathroom, much relaxed by a long soak in a hot bath, the smell of spaghetti bolognese met her nose immediately. Her stomach grumbled appreciatively and she smiled. She dressed quickly in skinny jeans, a blue t-shirt and flat shoes, and then realised she had left her hairdryer at home. Ruth felt too shy to go downstairs and ask Harry where he kept his – did men even use them? – so she towelled her dark curls off as best she could and tied them back in a loose bun at the back of her head.<p>

Then, taking a deep breath, she opened the bedroom door and walked downstairs.

* * *

><p>Harry's sharp ears heard Ruth making her way down the stairs. He drained the pasta and was just giving the bolognese a final stir when she appeared in the kitchen. He didn't turn around immediately, but started plating up their food. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked, sounding much calmer than she had done all evening. He frowned deeply and turned around.<p>

"Ruth," he explained patiently, "you're a guest. All I need you to do is sit down, pour yourself some wine, and relax. You've had a bloody awful day!" And then he noticed her outfit. Strange, but he only ever imagined Ruth wearing her work clothes. He never dreamed she would own skinny jeans, of all things... She looked down and away, blushing slightly, and he realised that he was staring. He stopped, and with a cough, returned his attention to the spaghetti. He heard Ruth sidle over to table, freshly laid, and sit down, and smiled in satisfaction. At last, picking up the plates, he turned around. "Mademoiselle," he grinned, "dinner is served."

They relaxed into each other's company surprisingly quickly, with the aid of the bottle of white burgundy Harry had managed to find. He didn't tell Ruth that ever since their date he'd kept a bottle in the house at all times. He felt that she wouldn't approve. The conversation was light and flowing, sparkling with something of Ruth's old naive wit, and the gentle humour that Harry loved so much.

"You know," Ruth confided in him as she twisted the last of her spaghetti around her fork, "I haven't had bolognese this good in years." She hesitated then, and Harry raised a curious eyebrow. Swallowing, she continued, "When I was... away, I went to Italy for a bit. Rome, Milan, Venice, Bologna. I remember there was a little _restaurante_ in Rome, where they made spaghetti bolognese. I ate far too much of it while I was there. But this is actually much better..."

Harry grinned, and broke the tension that the mention of her exile was slowly drawing over them with, "Well, Ruth, you can come for dinner again. Flattering the chef will get you everywhere." She chortled. Years ago, a comment like that – blatantly flirtatious – would perhaps have made her blush and retreat fast. But now, Harry's flirtations didn't faze her in the least. He wasn't a god amongst men, as she had made him up to be in her first months of working for Five. He was human, fallible... and extremely likeable. And she was, of course, still attracted to him. Very much so. But, then, she thought a part of her would always be attracted to Harry. That didn't mean that a relationship was possible between them. Earlier, Harry had mentioned being, "friends." If he felt the same way as her, he certainly was trying not to show it. And perhaps she was doing the same.

She looked away, over at the basket in the corner of the dining room, where Fidget was curled up between Scarlett's paws, both full and fast sleep. She smiled. "I never thanked you for looking after Fidget while I was away," she realised. "He almost didn't want to come home with me..." Harry poured them more wine, noticing the mournful tone of Ruth's voice, and imagining how he would have felt had the roles been reversed. The bond between a woman and her cat – or, indeed, a man and his dog – was deep and profound. "Nonsense," he corrected her brusquely. "He hated me for the first few months. Covered me in scratches. He and Scarlett got on like a house on fire, though."

Ruth nodded towards the basket. "I can see that. It was a relief to know he was being well cared for, anyway." She looked up at Harry, eyes full of something unreadable. Unconsciously he felt himself leaning in towards her, and, unless he was much mistaken, Ruth was doing the same thing. Then, suddenly, the atmosphere was gone. Ruth gave herself a little shake, and stood up, removing the empty plates.

"The least I can do is wash up." Frustrated, Harry rose too.

* * *

><p>Ruth wasn't surprised by the fact that Harry didn't possess a dishwasher. Both of them were too old-fashioned – and, she had to admit, too little at home – to contemplate the purchase of one. And so it was that, ten minutes later, Harry was standing elbow-deep in the soapy water, passing pots, pans and plates to Ruth to dry. He had rolled the sleeves of his jumper up to reveal bare forearms, and Ruth was having an annoyingly hard time concentrating on what he was saying to her. The conversation had somehow got onto classical literature, and their mutual love of <em>Lysistrata<em>. "...It's a great play," Harry added. "When I was fourteen, there was a production of it going on near my school. A friend and I blagged our way in – God knows how, they were pretty strict. I mean, it's not exactly pristine, is it?"

Ruth, who had grown up in a far more liberal era, and had actually been taken on a school-trip to see the play, nodded in sympathy. "It's very, very naughty," she agreed, completely straight-faced. Harry turned to look at her, lip twitching, and they both burst into laughter. It was the first time he had seen Ruth filled with such unadulterated joy since before she had gone into exile. The thought was saddening beyond belief.

They finished washing up, and he cleared the sink while Ruth continued putting the clean cutlery and crockery away, occasionally asking where he put a certain item. Ruth strained up on her tiptoes, trying to reach the shelf where the plates were kept, and not succeeded. Flat shoes had obviously been a bad choice. She didn't notice Harry neatly fold the tea towel and hang it over the handle on the oven door to dry. She didn't notice him walk slowly towards her. But she felt his bulk at her back, and she felt his hand remove the plate from her suddenly unresisting fingers. "Allow me," he murmured, his voice a rich, deep baritone that send pleasant shivers running up her spine.

The plate safely stowed, Ruth turned around, and then realised that Harry was still there. She stepped backwards and bumped into the kitchen counter. Harry was close, very close, almost too close. She could feel every slight tremor as his chest rose and fell. She could smell his aftershave, something classy and expensive. He bent his head down, and paused, waiting. His eyes were burning with the same expression they had held on that cold dockside one November morning all those years ago. Ruth stayed absolutely still, made no movement that could imply unwillingness. And then, slowly, so slowly that at first she wasn't sure if it was just her imagination, Harry bent his head down further and kissed her. It was nothing like their kiss on the dockside. That had been fierce, impatient, the kiss of two people who expected never to meet again. This kiss was soft and tender and caring, the sort of kiss given by a man unsure of his position, but very sure of his love. It was a kiss the sane part of her brain, the part that wasn't utterly devoted to Harry's lips, decided to privately denote as the, "something else kiss." At last they drew apart, and Ruth was pleased to see that she wasn't the only one breathing heavily. Her heart was racing. How nice it would be if she could be kissed like that all the time. She was sure no else kissed like _that_ – slowly, sensually, a kiss that was not a precursor to anything else, but an act of love and devotion in itself. Harry withdrew his warm hands from her waist – when had they made their way there? – and stepped back.

"Sorry," he coughed sheepishly. "I don't know what came over me – " Ruth stepped forwards softly and placed a gentle finger on his lips.

"You are the one person," she whispered, "who _never_ has to apologise for kissing me." And then, leaving him to make of that what he would, she left the room, throwing back over her shoulder, "Sleep well, Harry."

He stood there, watching her leave, frozen to the spot. A soft smile played over his face, smoothing his wrinkles. "Oh, I will..." he murmured.

* * *

><p>Back in her room, the euphoria of their kiss fading, Ruth was pacing. Had she been too bold in almost inviting him to kiss her again? Surely that could count as leading him on... And that would most definitely not be fair, not after all the things she had said to him. She had even, she could vaguely remember, told him that it was unfair of him to love her. And then, at the inquiry, she had been forced to speak of him as if he was her boss, merely her boss, nothing more. She had lived the lie she'd told Malcolm all those years ago – their dinner had been to do with business (<em>not pleasure<em>), she had sacrificed herself on Mace's altar to protect the country (_not him_), she had been kidnapped by John Bateman because of her value to the team as an analyst (_not to Harry as the woman he loved_).

When he had escaped serious punishment, due, in large part, she had later been told by Towers, to her testimony, she had been terrified of his return to work. Terrified of how he would treat her. Would she be a victim of his disgust for lying? His anger because he believed she had told the truth?

The reality had surprised her. The Albany affair passed unmentioned between them, and the Grid went back to business as usual. He had treated just the same as he always had – before her exile. She was his right-hand woman again, the one he shared private jokes with and relied upon more than any of the other, and, occasionally, even flirted with. She could almost forget that he had once proposed to her at a funeral, or given up an albeit-useless state secret for her.

But, until tonight, she had never again thought about the possibility of a life with him. Lying down underneath the cool sheets, she sighed. Perhaps now was the time to think...

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I have the next chapter planned, but not written... Let's see how full next week's schedule is...<strong>


	5. It's Alright

**AN: Everyone's been so nice, and I found a spare few hours, so...**

* * *

><p>Harry gave Ruth an hour to fall asleep and stayed downstairs, nursing a tumbler of whisky and only half-listening to the ten o'clock news. His mind was still very much focused on what it had felt like to hold Ruth in his arms. To kiss and to feel her kiss him in return. Perhaps they were not such a lost cause after all... At last, when the news had finished, he downed the rest of his drink and got up, wincing slightly as his back popped. He climbed the stairs silently, not wanting to wake up his sleeping guest.<p>

But as he reached the landing, he could hear a strange noise emanating from Ruth's room. Harry paused outside her shut door, listening intently. And then he realised what the noise was. It was Ruth. Ruth crying. No, not crying – sobbing and moaning. His hand stretched out involuntarily for the door handle and then he stopped, forcing his now clenched fist back down to his side. If Ruth was awake, she would certainly not appreciate him bursting in on her. She'd think he'd gone mad, for Heavens' sake. But if she wasn't awake...

If Ruth was having a nightmare, he couldn't bear to think of her dealing with it alone. Harry cursed his own stupidity. He hadn't even spoken to her about the burglary – of course, she would still be shaken up, and susceptible to this sort of thing. Adrenaline withdrawal, or something. Sighing, he reached out again, slowly and carefully, and opened the door. The light of the full moon, dimmed slightly by the thin curtains, illuminated Ruth's definitely sleeping form. She was thrashing about violently, tangled in the duvet, clearly in the throws of some horrible nightmare. He stepped forward and groped for the light switch, flicking it on.

But she didn't wake up. Instead, her moans became more audible and distinguished themselves into distinct words. She appeared to be pleading with someone. "No! No, please... not Harry, not Harry... Hurt me, shoot me, not Harry... please, please, don't hurt Harry! God, please, Lucas!" She was sobbing, gasping for breath, and Harry's heart broke as he realised that it was not the burglary she feared. He marched purposefully over to the bed and sat down on it. "Ruth," he whispered urgently. "Ruth!" Still she did not wake. "NO!" she screamed. He grasped her shoulders and raised her up, supporting her head against his shoulder.

"Ruth," he said clearly. "Wake up. I'm here, I'm here..." Her eyes, damp with tears, opened and slowly focused on his face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she trembled, turning the words into a saddening mantra. Harry wrapped his arm more firmly around her. "You had a nightmare," he explained shortly. "There's nothing for you to apologise about." She nodded, but she seemed as if she was barely listening to him. The joy of earlier had faded, to be replaced with fear and a sickly pallor. Harry held her as her breathing slowed and evened out, and then she pulled herself out of his arms, turning away from him a little to brush her eyes dry.

He was preparing to stand up and leave her in peace when she began to speak, in a deadened voice. "I was dreaming I was on that rooftop with you and Lucas." Harry froze and resettled himself on the bed. "Lucas is pointing a gun at your head and threatening to shoot you, and I'm there, but it's as if I can't move, and I'm screaming at the top of my voice, begging him not to hurt you, to hurt me instead, but he isn't listening. And then the gun goes off, and there's blood, so much blood... I can smell it, and it's all over me..." She dissolved into tears then, her shoulders shaking with them. Harry leant over and wrapped his arms around her from behind, trying to sooth her. "Easy, easy..." he shushed her. "I'm here. That isn't what happened, Ruth. It's just a nightmare, a horrid nightmare..."

She turned around again, shamefaced. "I know. But it seems so real. And it makes me feel so sick... because it would have been all my fault, Harry." He shook her shoulders gently.

"_That_," he scolded her firmly, "is utter rubbish, and I _forbid_ you to say such things." She gave a bitter chuckle.

"I've had a long time to think about it, Harry. It's time I said it aloud." A sudden thought struck him. Eyes wide, he asked her slowly, "How often have you had this nightmare?" Ruth looked down at the duvet, which her fingers were slowly twisting.

At last, she replied. "The nights when I don't have this nightmare... they tend to be the nights when I don't sleep at all." Harry leant back in shock, thinking of all the mornings in the past few months when she had been first onto the Grid, and then last off it at night, the same old Ruth, holding them all together, on probably only a few hours sleep. And she had never told them. She had never told _him_.

"Oh, Ruth," he breathed, voice filled with pity. "Why ever didn't you tell me what was happening? Why couldn't you talk to me?" She shrugged, hating herself for being unable to articulate what she felt. If someone had asked her, at that moment, to count up to thirty in Mandarin, she would have been able to do it without thinking twice. But to sit on this bed and talk to Harry about the endless rounds of work and nightmares she had suffered in the past few months – _that_ was impossible.

Gently, Harry tipped her head up so that he could look into her eyes, his own amber gaze making it clear that he would brook no disappointment. She let out a shuddering breath. "I suppose... I suppose I was afraid."

"Afraid?" he prompted slowly.

Her hands left the duvet and sketched patterns in the air as she tried to elaborate. "Afraid that you'd think I was... weak. Afraid that you wouldn't respect me any more. Afraid that you'd... send me away to Tring, or decommission me." The words rushed out, and drew a blush to the surface with them. Harry frowned deeply. "Ruth," he murmured, taking her hands. "You are one of the strongest people I know. I would never have thought you weak. I have nightmares, too. Not every night, but I have them. Am I weak?"

She shook her head, looking very much like a chastised schoolgirl.

He stood up, and her gaze followed him wistfully. "I was thoughtless not to realise that you would have been affected by... what happened," he admitted in a low voice. "For that, I'm sorry. But I want you to promise me something." Her eyes narrowed with curiosity, and she wondered if she was about to regret her confession. "What?"

"Promise me that you'll talk to someone about all this," he ordered insistently.

"A Service counsellor? I don't know if I'd feel comfortable – " she began to protest.

He held up a hand to silence her. "Not necessarily a counsellor. I just don't want you to be alone anymore. I think we – the team and I – see you as being so strong, and capable of looking after everyone else, that we sometimes forget that you need to be looked after sometimes as well." She smiled faintly, and Harry bent and kissed her forehead, his lips lingering for just a second too long before he turned away and walked towards the door.

But as he stood on the threshold and reached to turn out the light again, he heard her voice, soft and pleading. "Don't leave me, Harry." He paused and then returned to the bed, removing his shoes. As he settled onto the mattress, on top of the duvet, with Ruth wrapped securely in it and resting her back against his chest, her head tucked under his chin, he informed her matter-of-factly, "I will never leave you, Ruth. Never." She sighed gratefully and reached a hand outside of the duvet to wrap her fragile little fingers around his large hand. Then, softly, unbidden, Harry's voice began to form a song, sung to his children on the few nights during their childhood when he had been at home.

"_Well, the sun is surely sinking down_

_But the moon is slowly rising_

_So this old world must still be spinning 'round_

_And I still love you._

_So close your eyes_

_You can close your eyes, it's alright._

_I don't know no love songs_

_And I can't sing the blues anymore,_

_But I can sing this song,_

_And you can sing this song_

_When I'm gone._

_It won't be long before another day._

_We gonna have a good time_

_And no one's gonna take that time away._

_You can stay as long as you like_."

And so they fell asleep, entwined in each other, the only sound their even breathing, which became, as the night wore on, slowly synchronised.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Writing this fic is getting strangely addictive! Only two more chapters to go, so they may appear before Monday now...<strong>


	6. Breakfast At Harry's

**AN: As sort of promised, the next chapter...**

* * *

><p>Harry awakened, for the first time in years, to find he was not alone. And not even in his own bed. Ruth had shifted in the night, and her head lay across his chest, while her hand, still holding his, was fisted against his shoulder. He sighed happily, and Ruth moaned sleepily and woke up. It took her a moment to realise where she was, but once she did, she sat up quickly, releasing Harry's hand, and wishing fervently that she hadn't packed her oldest pyjamas, the blue teddy bear ones which had kept her warm – in the absence of anything, or anyone else – through a good many winters. Her hair was tousled, her eyes clouded with sleep, and Harry's mind buzzed vaguely with comparisons to the Sleeping Beauty.<p>

She smiled unsteadily. "Thanks," she murmured quietly, and he sat up too, to reclaim her hand. As he picked it up, she winced, and he frowned. She shook her head. "You're freezing," she explained softly. "I suppose that's my fault, for keeping you out in the cold all night. Why ever didn't you get under the duvet?" Harry blushed and began to trace patterns on her palm absently. "I think," he began sternly, "that _that_ would have been a little too forward." Ruth stiffened momentarily and then withdrew her hand again and began to get up.

"I'll just get dressed and then get out of your hair," she announced a little coolly, and Harry wondered what he had said to upset her. He stood up too and started making the bed, while Ruth vanished into the bathroom.

When she reappeared, Harry was nowhere to be seen. Ruth blushed, ashamed. She had been foolish to think that Harry had been offering anything more than comfort last night. She was too late. Too late in realising she loved him. Always too late. Furiously, she ran her comb through her hair in front of the bedroom mirror, counting stroke after vicious stroke.

She packed her bag, lingering over the few items she had packed, and mentally running through bus timetables, trying to find one that would get her to work from Harry's house. There was no way she could go in with Harry, driven by Mike. She trusted Mike's discretion, of course, but she wasn't comfortable with the idea of even one person knowing, and misunderstanding, the events of last night. At last, she could put it off no longer. She walked downstairs.

Harry was drinking a cup of coffee at the dining table and reading the morning paper, reading glasses perched on his nose, while Scarlett ate her breakfast in the corner. The scene was wonderfully domestic, and Ruth reminded herself with a twinge of regret that, had she not been so obtuse when Harry had proposed, she would have been a part of it, instead of an outsider, looking in. Harry looked up when she entered, and gestured to a chair opposite him. "Breakfast's almost ready," he told her evenly, jerking his head in the direction of the toaster.

She raised her eyebrows. "Thanks, but you didn't have to. I'm sure there's a bus to take me home, and I can sort out a few things there before I come into work." Harry set aside the paper and pursed his lips. "Ruth, have I done or said something to upset you?" he asked, somewhat bemused. She shook her head firmly.

"No. Nothing. You haven't done anything, Harry. I'll see you later."

"Ruth!"

"Yes?"

"I... I... I'll see you later."

_He can't even bear to look at me. He's made a mistake, and he knows it, and now he just wants to get rid of me as quickly as possible._

Harry's phone began to buzz on the table next to him. With a grunt of suppressed irritation, he answered it. He did not speak for a moment, and then he was off, holding up an _I-haven't-finished-with-you-yet_ hand to Ruth. She moved from one foot to the other awkwardly, disliking the feeling that she was eavesdropping. "Speaking. What is it? They've tried to do _what?_ I'll be there immediately... No, don't bother sending a car. I'll pick Ruth up on my way in."

He ended the call, and turned to Ruth, his face ashen. _Work, then_, Ruth guessed. "That was Alec," Harry informed her, confirming her suspicions. "Someone's tried to plant a bomb underneath Parliament." Her eyes widened, and she felt the colour drain from her cheeks. A thousand questions clamoured to be asked and answered and Ruth had to sit down. "God – is everyone alright?"

Harry replied with characteristic bluntness. "No casualties – it was found about half an hour ago and bomb disposal got to it in time. But if I'm not mistaken, it's going to be a hellish day. We've been drafted in to help find our Guy Fawkes." She did not smile at the joke. He rose from the table just as the two slices of toast popped up from the toaster. He tossed one, Frisbee-style, at Ruth, who, uncharacteristically, caught it, and checked his watch. "No time for a sit-down meal, I'm afraid," he grimaced, hurrying past her, down the passage and opening the front door.

* * *

><p>Ruth had never met a man so well-equipped for multi-tasking before. For the next minute or so, Harry appeared to be everywhere at once, pulling his coat on, and setting the alarm, answering phone calls from the Grid as updates on the situation slowly flooded through. Ruth stood by the door, feeling like a piece of driftwood in a sea of, admittedly rather well-organised, chaos. At break-neck speed, Harry ushered them out of the house, and into his car. Once they were on the move, Ruth had time to catch her breath and bite on her dry, and now cold, toast, fiddling with the zip on her jacket as she did so.<p>

Harry shot her a look out of the corner of his eye, and as he flicked on his indicator, stated absently, "There's something bothering you, so you might as well come out and say it." She jumped at the sound of his voice and forced herself to look out of the window, heart pounding at the thought of telling Harry exactly what the matter was. "There's nothing bothering me," she lied, rather unconvincingly. Harry tutted and turned the radio off. In the car's confined space, the silence was not deafening, but overpowering.

"Ruth," he warned quietly, and she scowled at the thought that, had she been standing, his voice, uttering that simple word, would have made her weak at the knees. He was obviously not intending to take no for an answer. "Why did you invite me to stay last night?" she asked.

"Sorry?" Harry echoed cautiously, executing the right hand turn with perfect precision.

"I think you heard the question."

"You'd just been burgled, for Christ's sake!" he exclaimed, punctuating his words with a wave of the hand. "You were obviously shaken up, and I was terrified about what would happen if I wasn't there. I was right." He paused. Then: "Why do you ask?"

Ruth flushed, and the zip-fiddling began again. "I... I don't know," she confessed, feeling rather foolish for even asking the question. A moment passed, and then she elaborated. "After everything that's happened, I was starting to doubt if we could ever be friends again, and then just as we seem to be getting somewhere, all this happens and now – " She stopped, afraid she had said too much. Far too much. She had come close to saying, "_and now I'm falling in love with you again_," which would definitely have been a bad idea.

Harry waited for a moment, and when it became clear that Ruth was not about to finish her sentence, he prompted, "And now?" She sighed and passed a hand over her face, head already buzzing. Voice much muffled by her fingers, she whispered, "And now, we're dredging up feelings that we should have put to bed long ago, Harry." Harry reached over to change gears, avoiding Ruth's eyes. "Is that such a bad thing?" he asked sombrely. She bit her lip, realising how hurtfully her words could have been interpreted. If only she understood fully what she meant... "Yes. No. I don't know!" she exploded.

They stopped at the traffic lights and Harry took a deep breath. He'd had enough of this. Ruth had been allowed to dawdle and waste time, and _think_ for too long. He leant over and kissed her, hard, on the mouth, his hands reaching up to hold her face. Ruth's hands moved up to cover his as he deepened the kiss. They were back to the dockside again. Suddenly, the beeping of a car horn interrupted. The lights had changed, and neither of them had noticed. They pulled apart abruptly, Ruth slightly dazed. Harry brushed his nose with the back of his hand, his classic gesture of awkwardness and started up the car, waving an apology in his rear mirror to the irate drivers who had begun to queue up behind him.

"Well," he announced as they pulled into Thames House's underground car park, "you'd better decide before tonight, Ruth, because at 7 pm sharp I'm going to ask you again. For the last time." She gulped. An ultimatum. Harry had never dared to give her one of those before. "I-I see," she stuttered nervously. "Right. Seven. Right."

The Grid was in the full throws of the crisis when they emerged from the pods, maintaining a careful distance. Harry was immediately enveloped by a delegation from CO-19, and, flashing an apologetic look over his shoulder at Ruth, he ushered them all into his office and shut the door with a definite snap. Glumly, Ruth slumped down in her desk chair and began looking through the piles of files on her desk. "Everything OK, Ruth?" asked Beth, brightly.

"Fine. Absolutely bloody fine, Beth."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I think there might be another two chapters, actually...<strong>


	7. I Still Love You

**AN: Here's the final chapter, but I have an idea for an epilogue, if anyone wants to read it. Hope you enjoy this chapter, and thanks so much for all your lovely reviews...**

* * *

><p>Ruth looked up from her desk as she heard Harry's door open to allow the CO-19 delegation to depart. Harry was framed in the doorway, already looking exhausted and more than a little vexed. He glanced across at Ruth's desk and his face seemed to soften. He had loosened his tie already and removed his jacket, and Ruth couldn't help wishing he'd roll the sleeves of his crisp white shirt up too, as he had done the previous night. After all, he had nice arms. Very nice arms... Suddenly realising she was staring, Ruth quickly returned her attention to the files on her desk, feeling her cheeks burn crimson with embarrassment. It was unfortunate that her zeal for work was so great, since before he turned back into his office, Harry smiled over at her bent dark head.<p>

The rest of the day seemed to pass in a blur. There was no time for lunch, as Dimitri and Beth headed out into the field, following up a lead, while Harry, Ruth and Alec gathered around the computer, watching Tariq conduct face recognition on all the people who had entered or left the Commons in the last twenty-four hours. At last, when it appeared that nothing was showing up any time soon, they all returned to their respective workstations. Harry's office door shut with a snap and Ruth could imagine him pouring himself a double whisky in there.

Seven o'clock arrived. Harry did not look up from his desk. Ruth knew, because she was watching him. Wistfully, she looked down at her files. She didn't know what to say to him, yet, but the fact that he had apparently forgotten all about his ultimatum was oddly disappointing.

"Harry!" Beth's voice suddenly came in clear over the comms. The members of the team still on the Grid gathered around Tariq's computer screen once again. Harry had braced his hands on the back of Ruth's chair, and their warmth was making it ridiculously hard to concentrate on the screen in front of them. She still had absolutely no idea what she was going to say to Harry. Swallowing, her mouth rather dry, she forced her mind back onto work. Perhaps it would all just go away... "We've found something," Beth explained. There was a note in her voice that made Ruth instinctively shiver. This wasn't, she sensed, going to be good news. "There's a coded communication here, to our bomb planter. It's one Dimitri recognises – "

"Pass him on," Harry suggested calmly, and the feel of his warm breath and the rumble of his voice made Ruth shiver in an entirely different way. Dimitri's voice crackled into life. "Harry – it's bad news. The code – it refers to two bombs. Two, not one. Same place, by the looks of things. One for the Commons, one for the Lords." Alec was frozen in horror, unable to believe what he was hearing, as was Tariq. Ruth let out a gasp of shock and twisted her neck to look imploringly up at Harry. Harry had his eyes closed and his face had taken on a stiff, mask-like quality. _If only I'd gone down there myself, instead of trusting CO-19 to check all avenues_, he cursed silently. Aloud, he asked, in an odd voice, "How long did we have on the timer when bomb disposal diffused the bomb this morning?"

"Fourteen hours, forty five minutes, twenty three seconds," Ruth replied quietly. For once, Harry was not grateful for her infallible memory.

"And that was at seven o'clock this morning?" he questioned.

"Yes," she whispered, almost guiltily, unable to tear her eyes away from his face, which was becoming paler by the second. She understood his anxiety, and his feeling of responsibility. If he hadn't been busy worrying about her, none of this would have happened...

"I wonder, Ruth," Harry queried again after a moment, "have you got the time?" The ordinariness of the question threw her. They could have been in the briefing room, waiting for Beth to rush in late, as usual. Or back at his house, waiting for a TV programme to start. Either would be preferable, Ruth thought fervently, to this situation, here and now. "It's quarter past nine, Harry," she replied, shocked at how late it had become without her noticing.

He snapped into action then, leaning close to the computer screen to make sure he was heard. _Leaders do not have feelings, as you well know..._ Her own words, spoken to Tom Quinn during an EERIE exercise a lifetime ago, haunted her as Harry uttered his next words. "Beth, Dimitri, get to the Houses of Parliament now. Issue the evacuation code Golf Foxtrot Romeo 92. CO-19 will be en-route, and so will we." His voice was commanding and firm, brooking no argument.

"Should I try and find the bomb?" asked Dimitri, the sound of his footsteps loud over comms as he and Beth ran back to their car. Harry was pacing now, a sure sign that he was thinking through a plan of attack. "Yes – time is of the essence. Do not try and diffuse it. That's an order."

There was a pause, and then Dimitri sighed. "OK, Control. Meet you there." Ruth got up from the computer and headed back over to her workstation, as Harry bent down to murmur something in Alec's ear. She was just collecting up some files to return to Registry when there was the sound of someone clearing their throat behind her. She turned and nearly dropped the files as she saw Harry standing by her desk. "Get your coat," he ordered brusquely. "I want you an analyst on the ground." Ruth opened and closed her mouth repeatedly before an excuse came to her mind.

"Tariq – " she mumbled, gesturing vaguely over to the techie's station. Harry raised his eyebrows and sighed impatiently. "Tariq and Alec are more than capable of holding the fort, Ruth. Mike's bringing a car round. Hurry up."

* * *

><p>And so it was that Ruth found herself, three and a half minutes later, sitting next to Harry in the back seat of a Service car, trying desperately to think. Ruth spent most of her time thinking – it was her job, after all – but she had never really <em>thought<em> about Harry. He just _was_. She loved him, of that she was in no doubt, but everything had been complicated for so very long. Both of them were emotionally backward, in possession of harsh tempers and too shy, most of the time, for their own good. But last night had shown her how wonderful a relationship with Harry could be, if only she had the courage to reach out and seize it with both hands. Ruth was not naive, as she had told Harry all those years ago. She knew that their relationship would be fraught with problems – they would undoubtedly quarrel often, and sometimes have difficulty expressing their feelings. But Ruth suddenly realised that she would rather have Harry with the problems, than the problems without Harry.

CO-19 were in full swing when Harry and Ruth arrived. Thankfully, Dimitri had found the bomb and was supervising its slow and lengthy diffusion with all the glee of an excited schoolboy on a class trip. The whole building was quiet apart from members of the Security Service (obviously the evacuation procedure was well-practiced and quick) and Ruth found it rather surreal to stand in the House of Commons lobby alone. She wasn't entirely sure why Harry had made her come her – there was no obvious work for her to do, apart from fielding phone-calls for Harry and keeping Tariq informed. Perhaps he was afraid that if he left her alone on the Grid, she would run away before seven o'clock had a chance to arrive. How wrong he was. Ruth had no intention of running ever again.

* * *

><p>At last, it was all over. The bomb was removed, safely, and Alec phoned a few minutes later to announce that a raid made by other CO-19 officers had managed to catch their bomber. Harry, checking his watch, thrust a twenty-pound note into Dimitri's hand, and ordered him wearily, "Go and pick the others up. If you're quick, you might just get to the George before chucking out time." He grinned, clapped Harry on the shoulder and caught up Beth's hand, leading her out. Ruth could hear them laughing with all the euphoria of youth as they left. A soft smile curved her mouth. Young love.<p>

"It seems you've been given a bit of extra time," Harry noted wryly, and she turned to see him looking at his watch. She glanced down at her own, glinting in the light of the Lobby's chandelier. Half past eleven. Taking a deep breath, she nodded. "Yes. It does." Harry stepped closer, his eyes taking on an intensity that scared and thrilled Ruth all at once. "And was it needed?" he murmured richly.

"No," she replied calmly. "Not at all." She was looking at the ground, at the intricate tiles of the Lobby floor, but she saw Harry's perfectly polished black shoes step away and her eyes flew to his face in confusion. It had fallen and looked impossible grey and gaunt. He was on the verge of turning away. "Oh," he whispered in a small voice. "Right. I see." He forced a laugh. "Well, it was worth a shot." Ruth panicked and lunged forwards, clasping his arm between both of her hands and forcing him around to face her with surprising strength.

"Harry!" she practically shouted. His eyes widened with tremulous hope and his eyebrows shot up. Ruth released his arm and looked up at him, begging him to understand. He was close again. "I didn't need the extra time, because it took me about fifteen minutes to work out that I loved you, and I've been phenomenally stupid and that I don't deserve you at all. When I stopped to think about it." She stopped, before she fell over the edge into a full-scale rant. Harry was silent for a moment, and then he coughed slightly. "Not up to your usual standard, I'm afraid, Ruth." She shot a querying glance up at him, and he elaborated with a wicked grin tugging his mouth, "Only one correct statement out of three."

She smiled, relieved. "Let's not waste any more time arguing, Harry," she replied softly. Gently, Harry cupped her face with his hand and kissed her, slowly and sweetly, but with such passion that "dockside kiss" and "something else kiss" were getting all mangled up in Ruth's head. Between kisses, he growled, "Nothing... was further... from my mind... Miss Evershed." She wrinkled her nose marginally, crinkling her skin up beautifully, and heard her voice, as if from very far away, announce against Harry's mouth, "You know, I like the sound of Lady Pearce much better." Harry stopped kissing her for a moment and raised his head slightly in surprise.

"Is that a proposal?" he asked, wanting confirmation. She nodded and rested her forehead comfortably against his. Harry laughed. "Very forward, Miss Evershed," he pointed out. "I was under the impression that, as the man, proposing is my responsibility." Ruth tutted quietly, and reminded him in a matter of fact voice, "Well, you made such a mess of it last time, I thought I'd help you out." His arms tightened agreeably around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

"I think," he replied gravely, "I might do a better job this time... Ruth Evershed, I love beyond all reason, and I'm very afraid I'll never stop. Will you marry me?" Ruth didn't need to hesitate. She didn't need to think.

"Yes. I will."

It is safe to say that the mosaics of the patron saints of the United Kingdom, which decorate the House of Commons Lobby, had never witnessed a stranger, or more beautiful, sight than these two people, very much in love, cradling each other in their arms and whispering their devotion to each other, finally expressed after so many years of denial and mischance.


	8. You Can Stay As Long As You Like

**AN: As promised, albeit a little late – an epilogue! Thanks a million to everyone who took the time to review this story...**

* * *

><p>"What have you got in this box, Ruth – rocks?"<p>

She laughed and turned as Harry entered the study, bearing the last box of her things. "Books," she explained, as though the answer was obvious, removing the box from his arms. He grunted with relief and stretched, wincing slightly as his back clicked. Ruth deposited the box on the already overflowing desk, and grasped Harry's hand. "I think all this lot can wait until later," she informed him slyly.

Harry raised his eyebrows in interest. "Later?" he echoed lightly, running his thumb over Ruth's new wedding ring. She nodded and rose up on her tiptoes to kiss him. "Mmm," she replied as they broke apart. "Much later." Gently, she led them out of the room...

* * *

><p>"Hey, Beth, has Ruth mentioned anything to you about selling her house?" asked Dimitri, frowning down at his newspaper, half a slice of toast hanging from his mouth. Beth frowned deeply and rose from her chair.<p>

"No. Why?" Dimitri shoved the paper into her hands, and jabbed his finger at one of the housing ads on the page he was reading. "That's Ruth's house, isn't it?" he demanded, biting into the toast. Beth rolled her eyes at her boyfriend's bestial eating habits and looked closer at the indicated article. After a moment, her eyes widened.

"Yes," she breathed in disbelief. Why would Ruth be selling her house? She paused, and then her eyes widened further, if that was possible. Grinning, she tugged the paper out of Dimitri's hands and slapped her hand with it. Then, still smiling, she left the kitchen. Dimitri could hear her whistling all the way down the hall. "Where are you going?" he asked, rather disappointed that his news seemed to have destroyed any possibility of returning Beth to his bed, at least for the moment.

Beth, picking up the phone, tutted loudly. "Calling Alec, idiot. He's won the book!"

Dimitri's brow furrowed in confusion. But, just as Beth began to gabble excitedly to Alec on the other end of the phone, his face cleared. A wicked grin spread across his features. "Good on them!" he chuckled under his breath, shaking his head in wonderment.


End file.
